Picking a Longshot
by cheride
Summary: A soon to be retired judge tries to decide who will work with him after he leaves the bench.


_Picking a Longshot- cheride_

_Rating: G_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_**A/N:** I wrote this story a little while back and ran across it while going through some files today, so I thought I would post it here. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

The judge sat behind his antique wooden desk, four file folders open and spread out before him. Each had a mug shot stapled inside and a stack of papers that contained as much background information as possible on the man in the picture. He had studied these same files—and others like them—for months, but as his retirement grew closer, he was beginning to feel that he was running out of time. Realistically, of course, he knew that he still had many months to go, but he felt the need to make this decision. In fact, if he could decide, he might not even wait until retirement...nothing said the young man—whichever young man it would be—couldn't help out with a myriad of odd jobs during his last months on the bench. 

He stared at the files, looking for some elusive clue that would tell him which convicted felon would make the best partner for his unusual post-retirement hobby. The judge ran the names through his head. Again.

David Warner. Andrew Gray. And, of course, J.J. Beale and Mark McCormick. Names to choose from and names to learn from.

So many similarities, and yet so many differences.

All had appeared in L.A. Superior Court before being sent to prison for their crimes, and all had brought prior criminal records into the court with them. But none had come to court on violent charges—they mostly seemed to have a penchant for auto theft and after hours burglary—and none had been sentenced to more than five years. Some were educated; some were not. Some had grown up privileged, some much less so. Some of them seemed mildly respectful when necessary; some didn't seem to understand the concept. And all of them seemed to have the ability to run their mouth absolutely non-stop. But even though most of their words seemed driven by anger, some of them seemed to relish the anger while some would let humor lead the way.

Oh, yes; lots of similarities and lots of differences. The key was going to be figuring out which of those differences actually mattered, because the details he really needed would never be printed out in a cold police file.

Sure, he could read prison psychiatric reports and research known accomplices all day long, but how would he ever know for certain which of them would be the most helpful? How did you spell out the intuition and quick thinking that he would need from his fast gun? How could you read about past crimes and see integrity? How could you determine which man you sent to prison would become the man you could trust with your life? He didn't know. And, almost as importantly, he didn't know how anyone faced with this decision would've ever known.

This was insane. He was trying to make a logical decision about something that probably just needed to be gut instinct, but it seemed too important to trust to mere feeling. He wanted information to back up his decision. There might have been times when he was content to allow emotion to rule his mind, but he didn't feel that this should be one of those times.

Of course, that wasn't the only piece of insanity in this situation—not by a long shot. The whole idea of spending his retirement years hunting down criminals who had escaped justice was a little bit out there in and of itself. He knew that, even if he would never admit it to anyone else. But he also knew that people should pay for their crimes. He had believed that long enough that sometimes it seemed like his whole life, and he believed it deeply. And, he couldn't get past the idea that he still had more to offer, even if he had reached an age where most people thought he ought to be slowing down and doing nothing more taxing than sitting by the pool all day. Hah! Not in this lifetime, not if he could help it.

He glanced at the files on the desk again, as if one of them might have actually held up a sign that said _'Pick me! I'm the one!'_ He wasn't that lucky.

Of course, it really didn't have to be a con, and he knew that, too. Whoever he finally chose, he would tell them that he thought it would take one to know one, but that wasn't entirely true. He knew all sorts of young men on the _right_ side of the law who would be able to handle the job well, and would be more than willing to join up. But...it seemed like part of what he had to offer was a chance to make a difference in someone's life. Somehow, it seemed to be his responsibility...his destiny. These kids—which was exactly how he thought of them, even though they were grown men—still had time to give up their lives of crime and make better choices for themselves. Of course, they could make that change on their own, but experience told him they would not. So, in the best Lone Ranger tradition, he was going to step in and save the day. He was going to give one of them the opportunity to change their life with him.

No closer to a decision than he had been before, the judge leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Maybe it was time to let his own intuition do its thing, he thought as the faces swam through his mind. As always, faces to choose from and faces to learn from.

"Have you been sitting there staring at those files since I left?"

The voice startled him, and the judge looked up quickly at the small, gray-haired woman standing in the doorway to the den. He smiled, slightly embarrassed.

"Probably," he admitted.

"And?"

"And, I think I've got it narrowed down to two."

The woman stepped into the room with a slightly scolding look on her face. "You've had it narrowed down to two for weeks, but you still keep staring at their files, comparing them to ghosts. If you're really going to do this thing, you just need to choose."

"How?" he demanded. He grabbed up two folders and waved the finalists in the air. "How do I choose? Which one of these guys is the one that takes off in the middle of the night on a crime spree and which one is the long shot that can finish the race? I don't know! I don't know _how_ to know." He looked at her sternly. "_You_ pick, if you think it's so easy."

"I didn't say it was easy," she replied after a moment, "I just said you needed to do it." She turned to leave the den, but paused on the steps and turned back briefly. She glanced at the framed photograph sitting on the desk, the one she knew the judge turned to in his most troubling and solitary moments. "I doubt if it was easy for him, either," she said softly, then disappeared from the room.

He had followed her gaze to the photo, and found comfort and confidence in the wizened face. It occurred to him that some things never changed; he had been finding solace in those features for years.

With a deep breath, he reached out decisively and pulled one folder closer to him. The time for hesitation and second-guessing was through, and if the two folders containing the files of "ghosts" had anything to teach him, he would have to hope he had learned it well. Andrew Gray it would be.

"Thanks, Kathy!" the judge called after his wife. Then he smiled as the realization sunk in. He would still make a difference; make his tracks in the sand a little bit deeper.

He had worn many titles in his lifetime: bastard, orphan, juvenile delinquent, racecar driver, car thief, ex-con, student, attorney, judge, friend, lover, husband, and father. But as he grew closer to wearing the title of senior citizen, he found that life as he knew it had begun when he took on the role of sidekick, and he was ready to try and pass the torch that he carried with pride.

Mark McCormick had just chosen his very own Tonto.


End file.
